Giraffe
by belladonna803
Summary: Can Ron leave George behind and do what he really wants to do? Written for the HP Canon Fest on LJ, especially for Thesteppyone. Warnings: Um, smut, and occasional swearing. Wet!Ron. Wait, do I have to warn for that? *wink*


Rain streamed down the window panes in torrents, casting fractured shadows on the store room's dusty floor. Ron withdrew his wand absentmindedly and cleared the dirt away. He wished that he could tidy his mind as easily. It felt cobwebbed and cluttered, and lately he found himself thankful for the repetition that was his daily routine at work. Not very stimulating, but at least he knew what to do, and what was expected of him.

"Where d'you want me to put this shipment of Mooncalf droppings, Mr Weasley?" Though Ron was only three years older than the wide-eyed, eager bloke in front of him, he felt years beyond him. Centuries, in fact. How had that happened? Ron was twenty-one for Merlin's sake. Miles from ancient. When had life grown so dull?

"Put it on the bottom shelf over there on the left, Jacob. There's a label." Jacob vibrated with the energy of the recently employed. Ron found himself more than a little jealous. "And by the way," he called after him, "my father is Mr Weasley. Ron is fine, really."

"Whatever you say, Mr Weasley," beamed Jacob as he headed back out to the front of the store.

Ron sighed and sagged against the workbench behind him. There was the till to balance, ledger entries to make, and the Gringotts deposit to drop off, as well as a plethora of other odds and ends to wrap up before the day was over. And somehow, after three years of helping George with Wheezes, and one of those spent running this Hogsmeade shop, Ron was chagrined to find that he could do it all in his sleep.

What the hell was wrong with him, anyway? So what if work was a little boring. At least he had Hermione, and she was far, far from boring. He smirked to himself, and was briefly cheered by the bright spot that she was in his life.

Too soon, though, his thoughts grew cloudy again. He fingered a crosshatch of white scars on his wrist and frowned. He couldn't possibly be pining for—for what? The Horcrux hunt? "Fuck no!" Ron said aloud, startling Maggie, who had ducked into the store room just then. She blanched and backed out again, which made Ron feel like a bit of an arse.

_Where was I?_ he thought, and then he remembered. _Oh yeah_. No. He would never wish to be back in that prison of an existence that the three of them had shared. He shook off the notion as if it had manifested it self and had latched onto him. Too many awful things...too much loss...pain. Ron shook himself again as his mind churned.

_It's in the past_, he told himself. No more running for his life. No damned cat-smelling tent. No Snatchers, or Death Eaters. No mad Dark Lords hiding bits of themselves all over the country. No spirit-crushing hunger. No death-defying Apparition. No freshly-dug graves.

He should be overwhelmingly thankful for what he had. And he had quite a lot. Then what? What was his problem?

Before Ron had even registered that he'd begun to move, his fist hit the wall beside him with a sickening crunch, cracking the plaster and forming a spider web of white veins in the bland grey paint. His knuckles would be bruised and swollen later, but he didn't care. At least it'd be a change.

"Get it together, you git," he muttered to himself. He cast a quick _Reparo_ on the wall, and grabbed his cloak from the hook beside the door. With a few parting instructions to Jacob and Maggie, he headed down the street for lunch.

*~*

"So what'dyou think?" asked Harry as he popped a chip into his mouth.

Ron nodded and took a huge bite of the vinegary, succulent battered fish. How could he be ungrateful or bored when there were moments like these--taking a break from the day, eating good food, and talking to his best mate? _Speaking of bright spots_, he thought to himself, and the heaviness that had entombed him earlier receded a bit.

"I mean, why _not_ tailor the training to the individual? Benson's got it all wrong, and every time I tell him so, he makes a face at me like he's smelling something foul. I don't think he likes me very much."

Ron sniggered. "Well you _are_ The Great Harry Potter, after all. Bloke's probably intimidated."

Harry rolled his eyes and Ron laughed harder.

"Face it, mate," said Ron after clearing his throat and gulping down half of his bottle of Butterbeer in one swig, "you're young, talented, full of fresh ideas, and what I'm sure he considers to be the biggest threat of all—you've got the Minister's ear. Old Benson's quaking in his boots, and rightly so."

They were silent for a bit as they sat side by side and polished off the last of their meal. Ron watched Harry drinking in his words like a sponge, and was once again struck by it all. That not only had they, Ron and Hermione, survived the Voldemort bullshit, but Harry had too. Here he sat, lap full of fish and chips, uncombed hair and smudged spectacles intact, living and breathing and talking about work. How on earth, then, could Ron still manage to feel sorry for himself?

"You'd think I spend my days holding him at wandpoint, with the way he's been acting."

Ron nodded, considering. "I think _he_ thinks that's exactly where you've got him. Your ideas are good, and he knows it. You already circumvented him by becoming fully qualified in a year, instead of three. And now you're suggesting changes to his old and tired methods after only _two_ years of working under him. Keep at it, Harry, and before long, it'll be you that's running that place." Ron smiled and clunked his shoulder into Harry's. Harry was staring a hole into the ground beneath his feet, matching Ron's expression with a grin of his own.

"There's a lot I'd do differently," he said, and Ron could hear the drive in his voice that was so utterly Harry.

"And you will do." Ron stood and offered a hand to Harry to tug him up as well. "Man, look how far you've come. To think that you started out as a scrawny, speccy shrimp who didn't even know he was a wizard." Ron eyed him exaggeratedly, as Harry scoffed. "On second thought," said Ron, "not much has changed in the looks department."

"Oi, just because I'm not descended from giraffes like you are doesn't mean I'm a shrimp!"

"Giraffes? Nice, make fun of my freckles, why don't you?"

"No, it's not that, you're--"

Ron lifted a hand to his throat. "You saying I'm long-necked, then?"

"Tall! You're tall!"

Ron coughed and bit his lip to keep from laughing.

"All right, bad example, yeah," Harry conceded. They sniggered together for a few minutes, but then Ron sobered as he caught a familiar look in Harry's eyes. It was as if the speccy shrimp's next words were written on his face.

"Y'know," started Harry, "We really could use you in the Auror department, Ron. Have you given it any more thought? I mean, it's been a few years now, and George might--"

"I really don't think I can quite leave him just yet," replied Ron in one breath. Guilt that Ron was sure was over Fred flashed in Harry's eyes. "He's doing great, mind. But the Hogsmeade shop'll need a new manager, and George's got his hands full right now with Diagon Alley and the mail order stuff."

He stared up at the colourless sky and pulled his cloak more closely around himself. "Winter'll be here before long. I'll start hinting around about hiring someone else after the new year. Then…maybe."

Harry bobbed his head in implied agreement. "M'kay, whatever you think is best. See you and Hermione tomorrow night at the Leaky, then? Ginny and I'll be there around seven."

"Yeah, wouldn't miss it," said Ron, and he watched as Harry stepped back and spun himself into thin air with a resounding crack.

No, he couldn't leave George just yet. At least, he was pretty sure he couldn't.

*~*

"Stay over tonight?" Hermione's voice vibrated against Ron's lips as he nuzzled her neck.

"F'you insist, luv," he rumbled, eliciting a satisfied giggle. He tugged the hem of her shirt from her jeans and slid his hands up the silky plane of her back.

Her fingers threaded into his hair, urging his mouth to explore a bit lower. "Are you…oh…hungry?"

"Mmmmm, more skin." Ron pushed her shirt up over her breasts and nipped at them through her bra.

"What about…dinner?" He could tell by the tone of her voice that she was just making a show of propriety to tease him. _Well, sod that_, he thought. Ron flung her bodily onto the bed and had both of them out of their clothes in a matter of seconds.

"Later," he said, and with forceful hands he spread her knees and hooked her legs over his shoulders.

"If…if you…nnnngghhh…insist," Hermione echoed, and he grinned as he slid a finger inside her. He waited until she was staring down at him from between her breasts before tonguing her clit, and she rewarded him with a very eloquent and profuse string of the words "Fuck, yes, and Ron," in varying lengths and combinations. God, but he loved this, and her. Now here was a job that he'd pay to be able to do. He laughed at the thought as his tongue traced diligent circles and swirls, and she shrieked for him to do it again, so he did.

Before long she was clenching around his finger, and yanking him up by his hair to kiss him. Her hand reached between them and then she was wrapping her legs around his waist, nails digging into his back as he fucked her.

"Love you," he said against her mouth, or it might've only been in his mind, he didn't know. Dipping his head down to kiss her breasts, he watched himself sliding in and out, hot and wet. He felt like he could watch that forever, pound into her for the rest of his life, and then his balls tightened and he was coming hard and absolutely mangling her name, he was sure of it.

When at last they were both spent, he dropped on top of her and snaked down to nestle his head against her belly. She always played with his hair afterwards when he did so, and it was one of his favourite things. He hoped that she never stopped doing it.

Just when he felt ready to doze off, Hermione called his name.

"Mmm?"

"What happened to your hand?"

He'd nearly forgotten. "S'nothing," he replied, but she saw through that in an instant.

"Tell me," she said soothingly.

"I'm just…frustrated with work, is all. It'll pass."

She was quiet for a while, but then, "You want to take Harry up on his offer, don't you?"

It was more of a statement than a question, but he answered it all the same. "Yeah. Can't though."

"Have you talked to George?"

His silence spoke for itself. "I think you should," she said, and he made a noncommittal noise into her stomach.

"No, really, Ron."

"D'you think I'm up f'rit?" he asked, voicing a fear that he could only show to her. He didn't need to explain that he meant the job, rather than the talk with his brother.

"Being an Auror is a serious profession, and I absolutely think you're up for it. A chance to make a difference. Help people. I know you want that. You care about it as much as Harry does."

"I dunno."

"Well I _do_ know. Don't I know everything?"

He snorted. "I've been telling you that for years, woman."

"Calling me a know-it-all isn't quite the same thing, but I'll take it."

As he finally drifted off to sleep, Ron was secure in the knowledge that he had to do something, but he didn't quite know how.

"You'll figure it out." Hermione's voice was low and soft, and right before sleep took him, he wondered if he'd spoken aloud, or if she really did know everything.

*~*

"All finished with the display," said Maggie, brushing her hands on her robes.

Ron glanced up and nodded in approval. She'd arranged the bottles of perfume that George had recently added to the Wonder Witch line into the shape of a bursting star, and had cast some sort of Charm to make streaks of multi-coloured light dance around hem. Maggie really seemed to have an eye for design. He made a mental note to talk to George about getting her input on the new product packaging and glanced at his watch.

"Mind the shop for me, eh, Maggie? I've gotta go meet up with one of our suppliers. I'll be back in about an hour." He picked up his cloak and the small sack of Mooncalf droppings he was bringing along as a gift and headed towards the door.

"No worries, Ron, everything's under control here. Oh, and say hello to Mr Longbottom for me, would you?" She laughed at his startled expression.

"Will do," he said, raising the sack of droppings in salute, and he was out the door.

*~*

"Hey, Ron! With you in a mo," said Neville jovially as Ron stepped inside the brightly lit space.

Ron couldn't help but be impressed with how Neville's greenhouse was coming along. In the few short years since leaving Hogwarts, he'd managed to produce plants that nearly rivaled the school's, both in size and what Ron gauged to be quality as well.

The air was filled with the pungent aroma of freshly dug earth, and the sound of rustling leaves rang out all around them, somewhat unsettlingly, Ron thought. Much to his surprise, Neville was wearing what looked to be rain gear, which, curiously, was dripping, though Ron couldn't quite figure out why. Upon stepping closer it appeared that he was repotting several bunches of bright yellow flowers. They seemed rather pleasant, really. Ron was just reaching out a hand to the pot closest to him, and wondering whether Hermione might like some for her window box when Neville shouted. "DUCK!"

Too late.

As soon as Ron's finger touched the velvety petals, the once gentle-looking buds opened like tiny sun-coloured mouths and sprayed warm, slightly gooey liquid all over him. In a show of real solidarity, Neville didn't laugh. Much.

"Eurgh, what the hell've they done to me?" spluttered Ron. He noticed that though the stuff felt exactly like water, it wasn't really _acting_ like water. He watched as a rivulet of it wended its way down his shirt, but it didn't dissolve into the fabric like water would have. Instead it spread itself out in a crease of cloth near his belt buckle and stayed there, a glistening bit of…something. But his hair had been plastered to his face in the blast, though, and he definitely felt wet.

"Relax," said Neville, "it's just water."

Ron arched a doubting eyebrow at his friend and drew out his wand to dry himself off.

"That's not going to work, though," Neville continued with a weakly suppressed chuckle. "Don't worry, it's not harmful, and you'll dry out in a while, but for now I'm afraid you'll just have to, er, drip."

"Charming," said Ron. "What are they, exactly?"

"Spitting Snapdragons. Wake 'em, and they'll spew enchanted water all over you. Can't be dried or Charmed off, but the enchantment only lasts for a few hours. Good for use in salves and the like."

That definitely had the ring of something that would intrigue George, for Wheezes. Ron'd have to be sure to mention it. "Never tickle a Spitting Snapdragon. Duly noted." Neville nodded sagely, his shoulders shaking a little.

"What's in the sack?" Neville asked, gesturing to the drenched bag that Ron still had clenched in his fist.

"Essence of Mooncalf, freshly spat on," said Ron, and Neville laughed aloud at last.

"Thanks! Just pop it over there to dry. Yeah, that's fine."

Neville offered Ron a seat on an upturned crate, and then took one himself. "So, how's Hermione?"

"Great. Whipping the Ministry into shape, one inter-departmental memo at a time," said Ron, with a smile. He wiped, or rather diverted, the snapdragon water out of his eyes. It really was odd stuff. George was gonna love it.

Neville grinned appreciatively. "And the shop?"

Ron's expression drooped before he could stop himself and he gave a one-shouldered shrug. 'S'all right, s'going good," he said, trying to whip up some Hermione-esque enthusiasm, and failing miserably.

"Ron, I'm probably over-stepping, but…" he trailed off, and waved a dismissive hand.

"Nah, mate. Go ahead."

"Well…"

"Spill it, Nev."

Neville grinned again, but his eyes were serious, and full of concern. "Tell me this. What do you really want to do?"

The answer popped into his head and out of his mouth in nearly the same instant. "Become an Auror."

"Then do it. Make it happen."

Countless reasons why he _couldn't_ just do it seemed to stack in front of him. "But George--"

"I don't mean for this to sound harsh, but you've given George three years, Ron. If I know him as well as I think I do, then I'm sure he's more than grateful for everything you've done. You didn't just help to rebuild his business…you helped to rebuild _him_. And he knows that. But I'm sure he also knows that you've got your own ambitions. Talk to him."

"You make it sound so simple."

"Well," he said gently, reaching up to rub his forehead and streaking it with dirt, "we both know that it isn't. Not really. But take it from me, you've got to live your life for yourself."

"My mum's against it. Hates that Harry's already there. Worries all the time."

Neville placed a bracing hand on Ron's shoulder. "You've got Hermione's support, I'm sure, as well as Harry's. And mine, for what it's worth," he added.

"Thanks, Neville, it's worth a lot."

*~*

Ron had Apparated straight to Diagon Alley after leaving Neville, brimming with certainty and purpose. Now that he was here, however, he felt himself flagging at the prospect of confronting George. No, confronting was the wrong word. Ron wasn't expecting a fight. He just didn't want to cause George any more pain. He knew that his brother would never fully heal from losing Fred. That wasn't possible for any of them. There was still a hollow spot in Ron's chest where Fred belonged, and it would never go away.

But it had got better. Was George better enough too?

Ron thought about what it might be like to actually be an Auror. Hermione's words came back to him. _A chance to make a real difference. Help people_, she'd said. _I know you want that. You care about it as much as Harry does._ He did want to help people. When he was younger, he'd have never expected that of himself, but if he was being honest, he hadn't thought much of himself then.

But he'd learned a lot, and come to terms with more than his share of inner demons, and he knew that he could make a difference. He'd already done it. Helping the Cattermoles had felt brilliant, and he hadn't done it for notoriety, or wealth, or anything stupid like that. He'd done it because it was the right thing to do, and because he was not about to let the Death Eaters and those "Magic is Might" twats get away with something so horrible.

Here was his chance to do more of that. Hopefully George would understand. He would, wouldn't he?

The shop was packed, what with Christmas rapidly approaching, and Ron found it difficult to thread his way through the crowd without getting any residual snapdragon spit on anyone else. He'd dried considerably, but was still wet enough to be noticeable. Which of course George did, as soon as Ron ducked into the back room.

"Did you get hit with a one-man monsoon, or have you been visiting with Fang?" George was busy stirring some unknown concoction in a furiously smoking cauldron, and Ron backed away. One run in with something weird and splodgy was more than enough for today.

"You need to pay a visit to Neville's greenhouse," he said with an emphatic nod in answer to George's question. "More on that later. I need to talk to you about something important. I want to--to--" He faltered. How could he do it? How could he be so selfish? George needed him, and here he was only thinking of himself.

George stared at him for a few moments and then waved his wand over the cauldron. All hissing and smoking within it ceased, seemingly frozen. "I've been expecting this for some time, and I think you should do it."

It took a moment for what George had said to sink in to Ron's brain. Surely he hadn't… "You think I should--"

"Hand the Hogsmeade shop over to Angelina and become an Auror."

Ron spluttered. "Angelina?"

"Angelina," said George firmly. "Beautiful girl. Athletic. I think you've met her once or twice."

"But she--"

"--will do a bang up job. She--

"--already has a career at the Ministry!"

"--was looking for a change, and wanted to get to know the business. I've been bringing her up to speed for months."

Ron's skin prickled as the last of the enchanted water evaporated away. He suddenly felt hot and too large for the room, and he just knew his ears had to be flaming red. There was no way that this conversation was happening, was there?

"Look, Ron. I'm sorted. _Really_. Go…wave pointy sticks at bad wizards, or whatever that Auror lot get up to."

"But--"

"Are you actually arguing _against_ my letting you go?"

Ron shook his head, not trusting his mouth any longer.

"Go," George repeated. And then he had Ron in a massive hug. "Thanks for everything, bro," he whispered, and walked out before Ron could do more than whisper back a choked _You're welcome_.

*~*

"Ron, I'm thrilled you've decided to sign up." The Minister for Magic beamed and shook his hand.

"Been meaning to for ages, Mr Shacklebolt."

"Kingsley, _please_."

He was about to scoff and say, "Whatever you say, Mr Shacklebolt," but an image of Jacob from the Hogsmeade shop popped into his mind and stopped him. "All right, then Kingsley," he said.

"Well, I'll let you get to it. Archie, Mr Weasley is all yours," said the Minister as he stepped out the door.

Harry grinned ebulliently at Ron from over Archibald Benson's shoulder, bouncing from foot to foot. Benson, on the other hand, looked rather put out. "Weasley, eh?" Benson barked. He eyed Ron with disdain, scratching his jowly chin in consideration. "Blimey, but you're a tall one."

Ron nodded. "It's been suggested that I might be part giraffe, sir."

The older Auror's eyes narrowed. "Are you mocking me, son?"

"No, sir," said Ron. Harry was turning purple in an effort not to laugh. Ron looked away from his mate, and instead stared down into the pallid face of the man who would most likely make his life a living hell for the next year or more. Ron couldn't wait.

"Well, then, let's see what you've got. Potter, you know what to do."

Harry sobered and nodded, stepping out from behind the rotund little man. "Ready?" he asked.

"Definitely," said Ron, squaring his shoulders and standing tall.

And he absolutely was.


End file.
